


Never Reaching The End

by HappyEight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Soul Touching, Technically Gen but Also Technically Wincest, because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyEight/pseuds/HappyEight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam isn’t in a position to make any demands at the moment, passed out in the back seat of the Impala and still as a corpse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Reaching The End

The house is old. Old enough that if Sam had the option of being picky he would have told Dean ‘no’ with his trademark bitch face and refused to enter the house at all either on the basis that it was too dirty or wasn’t safe. Sam isn’t in a position to make any demands at the moment, passed out in the back seat of the Impala and still as a corpse. Dean had to stomp down the urge to stop every five minutes as he tore down the dirt road far too fast for either of their safely instead of pulling over and making sure that his sibling was actually still breathing.

The lock picks easily, if it didn’t he wouldn’t have hesitated in breaking it down. They’ve got time, not much but enough( _it’s still too late too late too late_ ). The Impala got them to the farm house faster than he would have hoped, his baby always pulling through for him when it counts, whining in protest on fumes when she finally came to a rest in front of the house. A locked door isn’t much protection against the things that go bump in the night but it’s better than nothing. He moves through the house as quick as he can muttering in Latin under his breath and when nothing immediately tries to kill him, he returns to the Impala and Sam.

“Sammy?” Dean tries to wake the younger Winchester, and Sam doesn’t even so much as twitch. Dean clenches his jaw and works on dragging his brother into the house, glad that it’s the only one in miles, because to the passerby he’s pretty sure that it looks like he’s trying to maneuver a dead body into the house. He ignores the terrified part of his brain that whispers that it feels likes he’s maneuvering a dead body into the house.

There is furniture in the house and Dean is as careful as he can be in lowering Sam’s body onto the dusty couch. His hand finds Sam’s wrist and he presses gently with his eyes closed and breath held until he is sure that there is a faith pulse( _not faint, disappearing_ the traitorous voice whispers) before he returns to the Impala one more time to grab his duffle bag and more guns.

He wards the front room painting sigils on the window in thick red streaks after drawing the salt lines on the doors and windows and one around the couch for good measure. Nothing is going to get past those lines while he’s still alive and kicking.

Outside, far away, but still too close, an animalistic howl shrieks through the early morning air. Dawn is close but maybe not close enough( _it’s too late anyways_ ).

Dean sits in a chair he grabbed from the kitchen, right in front of the couch, his back towards his brother, and waits. He waits, completely silent until there is the scrabbling noise of heavy dull nails on the derelict boards of the front porch and he stands up gun ready.

Behind him Sam makes a noise, a gasp of pain, small and weak. His chest is twitching and his lips are opened partly like he’s trying to breath but the air refuses to travel past his lips and down into his lungs. Dean clenches his jaw and forces himself to concentrate on the creature outside and not his brother( _he’s dying_ ) struggling to hold onto life on the couch.

A chorus of whining comes from the front porch, almost canine, but the chills that spark up the back of Dean’s neck like static electricity warn him otherwise. The scratching noise gets louder, the creatures trying to break through the front door but the power of the line of salt keeps them at bay. Dark shapes flick past windows and Dean has to fight to remain calm, because there are way more of those fuckers out there than he expected. It doesn’t matter because--( _it’s too late for Sam toolate_ ) -- It doesn’t matter because Dean doesn’t care, he’ll take out as many of the fucking things that’ll come at him, nothing is going to keep him from saving Sam. Not one, not a dozen, a hundred of the soul sucker aren’t going to keep him from protecting Sam.

They’re smarter than so many of the things that Dean’s ganks before. When they realize that doors and the windows are a no go they take a more direct route and smash through the rotting wooden wall of the country house with a shriek of victory.

Dean eyes the the ring of salt around the couch frantically for any breaks but it’s far enough back from the wall that the line remained unbroken from the few chunks of wooden shrapnel that flew into the room. The rotten wood mostly crumbled at the attack and Dean’s thankful for once that the decrepit nature of a house played in their favor.

The creature, something that Dean has never seen before, never wants to see again, is comprised of shadow but has the shape of a large canine. Dad’s journal just had ‘ _Shadow Hounds -- Sunlight?_ ’ with the photo of a shadowy canine figure. It’s barely anything to go off of but Dean’s had to do more with less( _not without Sammy_ ).

The Hounds eyes are a glowing electric blue and from it’s gaping jaw a dimmer pale light emits. The creature splits into two, three, four, _five_ shades of itselfand circles the salt line snuffling along at the edge of the salt line making the same hair raising whining noise in a disjointed chorus that sets Dean’s teeth on edge.

He shoots a silver bullet through the head of one of them and the bullet goes right through, splintering the wood in the wall where it embeds itself. The creatures scatter back from the line momentarily losing their shape and blending in with the darkness before creeping back towards the line and regaining their form.

Dean changes guns to the shotgun and sends a round of buckshot through one of the Hounds. A chorus of wails goes up and Dean has to fight not to drop his gun and slam his hands over his ears as the creatures scatter once more dissipating into the shadows.

The wailing echoes in his ears long after the hounds have ceased their cries. The noise turns his stomach and leaves him feeling weak and cold.

On the horizon, the sun is sending it’s first tentative reaches of pale light up into the sky. Dawn will break soon and Dean will know for sure how fucked they are or aren’t after that. The whining becomes more frantic, edging into growls of frustration now as Dean assumes the hounds sense the approach of dawn.

The salt buckshot doesn’t send them all scattering the second time, only the one that he hits. The Hounds still wail and shriek together, circling the ring of salt faster and faster. Creating a torrent of dust in the room and but the salt somehow remains a solid line( _The wind is magic_ ). He’s out of buck shot now and down to a flask of holy water. He holds it ready unwilling to fling the water for fear of breaking the line but ready if the line does break.

The hounds are circling the line now, faster than Dean can focus melding into one shadow streaked with electric blue and their howls gain in volume until Dean has no choice but to slam his finger over his ears, still trying to maintain a tight grip on the flask and groan in pain at the sheer volume of the wails that the hounds are producing.

When the first light of morning creeps through the window lazy and slow, unaware of the lives that are waiting for it’s saving rays, Dean has crumpled to the ground, holy water forgotten, hands clenched tight over his ears( _I’m sorry Sammy, sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry_ ). The wailing drops and fades dwindling until all that remains is an echo that seems to make the old house creek wearlily.

Dean finally opens his eyes to the dim morning light filtering through the window, bright and warm as the sun that give it. A faint bluish globe of light is all that remains of the hounds. It floats absently down and up, down and up, just outside the protective line of salt.

“Sammy,” Dean gasps and reaches for the light before he can really think about what he’s doing. The light is warm, like a rock that full of the suns warmth, and it sends a pleasant tingle through his fingertips. It( _Sam_ ) is content to let him guide it, and he does so cautiously after marvelling for a moment at what he’s touching before he realizes _what he’s touching_ and the overwhelming urge to get what he’s pretty damn sure is Sam’s soul back into his body as fast as possible motivates him.

He guides the shimmering light over to his brother and gentle cups his hands over Sam’s chest, pushing the light down. There’s a moment of resistance, enough to make Dean panic( _god no, toolatetoolatetoolate_ ) where the light remains trapped between his fingers and Sam’s chest before the soul disappears beneath his fingertips.

Sam takes a sudden breath, like there’s finally enough room in his chest for his lungs fill and expand.

“Sammy?” Dean whispers hovering over his brother, hands fluttering but not touching.

Sluggishly Sam’s eyelids blink open and he stares distantly and then with increasing focus at his brother.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is tight and strained but it’s enough to make Dean tip closer and wrap his little brother in a tight hug. Tight enough that Sam gives a little groan of protest. Tight enough to reassure him that Sam is safe and alive.Tight enough that Dean can pretend that he didn’t almost just lose Sam _again_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from Moody Blues - Knights in White Satin


End file.
